


Despite Everything

by loveofmylonglife



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8271398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveofmylonglife/pseuds/loveofmylonglife
Summary: Book spoilers/S3 spoilers, please don't read ahead if you haven't read the books and don't want to be spoiled! Ross, Elizabeth and Valentine's birth, as I long for it to be. Wish fulfilment, sappy fluff and adorable stuff, so beware. Ross/Elizabeth right off the bat.





	

It hurt. Worse than it had done with Geoffrey Charles. She paced around the room anxiously, one hand on the small of her back as she watched Aunt Agatha hobble into the drawing room slowly.  
“How is it feeling?” she asked rather unnecessarily, hovering unhelpfully around Elizabeth.  
“I’m quite well, Aunt, you needn’t worry yourself,” Elizabeth replied with an easy smile, “I’ve sent for Verity and I’m sure she will be back from town as soon as possible.”  
Agatha nodded and both women fell into a comfortable silence as Elizabeth began pacing again. Her hair felt heavy against her neck and her hand at her back wasn’t doing much to support the expanse of her stomach that was feeling increasingly tight under the several layers of her gown. She exhaled slowly as she felt her abdomen clench and release, tighter this time.  
“And….George? Will he be home soon?” Agatha ventured quietly, intrusively.  
Elizabeth didn’t still her pacing, but turned to lock eyes with the old woman.  
“No, George is in Bodmin on business. He shan’t be back until the weekend.”  
Agatha didn’t reply, but got up and hobbled towards the servant quarters, mumbling about checking on the hot water, leaving Elizabeth to resume her pacing. The light was dimming outside and it would get dark soon. She hoped Verity would be back; she’d insisted on going into town to buy more yarn to make a baby bonnet with. Elizabeth had explained that it was unnecessary and the baby would be able to use Geoffrey Charles’ old things, but Verity had exclaimed at this, saying that a new baby required new garments. It’s been years since Geoffrey Charles was a newborn, Verity had said.  
Elizabeth exhaled sharply as a harsh twinge cut at her stomach and she bit her lip, gripping the window ledge for support. The room was quiet around her, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the grate, which didn’t do much to warm the surroundings. The house wasn’t empty but it seemed that way, the large hallways and rooms resounding with a dreadful silence that hurt her ears. She stared out of the window, watching as someone lit the torches on the pillars either side of the gate. Verity would be home soon, she was sure of it. She was determined to get this over and done with as soon as possible. She bit her lip as another sharp pain lashed at her stomach and gripped the ledge so tight her knuckles paled. It was faster than it had been with Geoffrey Charles and she felt lightheaded now, as if she’d fall if she didn’t keep a death grip on the ledge.  
The heat seemed to overwhelm her even though the fire was so weak and she reached behind her to loosen the laces of her gown that seemed to tighten by the minute. She wished she could get go of the ledge to put her hair up but she didn’t dare and began to pace again instead. Her heart throbbed in her chest, loud enough to drown out the crackle of the fire. She didn’t know why she was becoming so anxious, why she felt so panicked all of a sudden. Her throat felt dry, sandy almost and her body felt large and unwieldy, her stomach unbearably large and distorted. She gritted her teeth, half in pain and half in disgust at her state. She wished, how she wished she wasn’t like this. How she wished she could sit in the same chair Aunt Agatha had just vacated with a nice dull sheet of embroidery. Staring vacantly into the fire while George occupied his study and Geoffrey Charles slept upstairs sounded like a much better plan for the evening than giving birth to a child she wished had never been conceived.  
Her jaw clenched painfully as the thought swam through her head like the mist that descended over the grounds in the early mornings. The pains were getting worse now, closer together and there was no one. Aunt Agatha seemed to have disappeared and so had the servants, she could see no one and she wasn’t able to walk around the house or even call for anyone. Her lips burned from biting to prevent her crying out as her legs almost buckled beneath her with an intense, sharp shock that told her there wasn’t much time left. She tried to catch her breath while it felt like every organ below her heart was suffering some sort of catastrophic failure, as if someone was reaching in to grab her insides and twist them. Her body was on fire with the devastating heat and her eyes burned with tears she refused to let spill, grabbing at her stomach seemed to do nothing to quell the restless feeling. All of a sudden, she heard a hasty crunch of gravel outside and in her delirium and she snapped her head up from where she’d been bending over almost.  
It was the unmistakeable sound of a horse’s hooves on gravel and someone dismounting outside, she knew it. A cool breeze of relief swept over her and she almost smiled, gathering all of her strength to hurry as fast as she could to the front door, struggling to pull it open. She used the last reserves of her strength to drag the heavy wood open, her breath leaving her body completely with the exertion. She stepped out onto the stoned porch, looking either side for Ross. She was sure he’d come, she was sure she’d heard his horse outside. Any second now he would stride towards her with his crop in hand, removing his leather gloves and hat and whisking her inside.  
“My dear! Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry, I came as fast as I could! How is it? It’s so early, too early. Why has no one taken you upstairs yet?”  
Verity gripped her hands and pulled her inside, closing the door behind her to shut out the cold night air. She frowned as she let go of Elizabeth’s hand, looking her over worriedly. Her sister in law’s hair was a mess, curls tumbling everywhere and her gown loose and almost formless around her as she clutched at her stomach harshly, her eyes red and desperate. Verity pressed her hands to her face quickly, feeling her hot skin, deeply flushed and radiating intense heat. There was something wrong.  
“We must get you upstairs, come.”  
Elizabeth clutched gratefully at her friend’s arm, slowly making her way up the stairs as Verity provided her with all the support her small frame could muster. Of course, she was stupid and silly to think that Ross would ever be here. She shook herself out of the hallucinations her fevered mind was bringing before her. This was no time to act like a silly little girl. The seizing ache in her spine drew her attention back to her body rather than her mind and Verity’s voice interrupted her thoughts.  
“Sit here for me, on the bed. Where is Aunt Agatha? Are the servants fetching hot water? Have you sent for Dr Choake or Dr Enys? Have you sent for George yet?”  
“No.”  
The words were quiet but certain from Elizabeth as she sat on the bed, breathing deeply and watching Verity flit around the room like a startled deer. She paused and turned to Elizabeth. She was fully aware of the contention between Elizabeth and George but surely the father should be present at the birth of his first child. She knew George was away in Bodmin on business and wouldn’t be back until the weekend, she’d watched him leave with her own eyes but the baby was coming early, it was a precarious time and even George couldn’t be heartless towards his own wife and child. He might not be much help to Elizabeth if he was here but it seemed right to call for him.  
“Shall I send for him? It shall be quite a ride to Bodmin, I don’t know quite when he would arrive,” said Verity gently.  
“You may send for him after the child is born,” said Elizabeth, her voice weaker now with not one drop of the authority that she’d intended.  
“But Elizabeth, with the delivery earlier than predicted, things may not….surely George would want to be present if anything should occur….” her voice trailed off uncomfortably and Elizabeth knew full well what she was trying to say.  
“The delivery will be as it was with Geoffrey Charles. There is nothing to worry about. All will be well, Verity.”  
Verity bit her lip at her reassuring tone. She didn’t know if it was Elizabeth talking or the delirium. She seemed in possession of her senses and Verity let go of the discussion for the time being. She was in no fit state to make any decisions and soon Aunt Agatha swept in with a large bowl of hot water, placing it next to the bed and setting about lighting the candles Verity had forgotten in her anxiety.  
“Aunt, have you called the doctor?”  
Agatha ignored Verity’s pleading tone and gestured for the servants to tend to Elizabeth. They unfolded a looser and more comfortable white nightgown, beginning with the unlacing of her formal dress, and Agatha swept Verity outside in one firm but quick motion.  
“Aunt, have you called for the doctor yet? And George? Did you call for George?”  
“Dr Enys is on his way. So is the father of the child.”  
With that, Agatha turned her back and shuffled downstairs slowly. Verity didn’t quite breathe a sigh of relief, turning to look through the doorway. Elizabeth was lying uncomfortably against a stack of pillows, her eyes closed as she attempted to relax. The gown draped unflatteringly around her large bump. Verity knew this pregnancy hadn’t been the easiest for Elizabeth. Even though she had been away from Trenwith until the last few days, when Elizabeth had desperately called for her, she had received letters from her former sister in law. Almost one every few days, mostly kind and enquiring after herself and Andrew and her stepchildren, commenting on the weather and mining work as well as Geoffrey Charles’ newest habits and antics. Verity never failed to pick up the hints of how alone Elizabeth felt in Trenwith, though newly married and pregnant. There were never any details of her pregnancy in the letters, how she was coming on, what she had bought for the baby, what she was making and her hopes and fears, something she had shared closely with Verity when she had been expecting Geoffrey Charles.  
She swept in and sat down, taking Elizabeth’s hand reassuringly.  
“Aunt Agatha has told me George is on his way. He should be here as soon as he can.”  
“I don’t need George,” she whispered, locking eyes with Verity in a fashion that made it clear it wasn’t the delirium speaking.  
Verity didn’t know what to say in reply but thought it was best to continue reassuring Elizabeth, letting go of her hand to adjust the sheets around her, making sure she was as comfortable as possible. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut as another pain compressed her abdomen, making her breathe heavily. Verity’s eyes widened in panic and she got up, quickly pouring a glass of water.  
“It’s cold, my dear, you must drink it. You’re so hot. I do hope Dr Enys gets here soon, I hope to God the heat isn’t a sign of anything more dangerous.”  
Elizabeth breathed in and out, taking short sips of the water Verity was holding to her lips. Her face and neck were burning as if someone was holding them near a blazing fire and she was sure she was sweating. Now wasn’t the time for this, now was the time to collect herself and focus on the task at hand. Her whole body felt heavy as she sunk into the bed and she heard a telltale sound downstairs to let her know the doctor had arrived.  
“I don’t need George,” she whispered again, using one hand to brace herself as she sat up with difficulty, “I don’t need George. I don’t need anyone.”  
Barely a few miles away, Ross dropped his spoon unceremoniously into the soup he was eating, a loud clanging sound filling the room awkwardly. Demelza stared at him over the table, peering inquisitively at the note in his hand.  
“Ross? What does it say?”  
He froze and his gaze carved lines in the paper as he read the words over and over, struggling to comprehend them. He looked up at Demelza’s worried expression and folded up the tiny square, pocketing it as calmly as he could.  
“Nothing, my love. Words from Dwight about the rockfall at the mine earlier.”  
He picked up his spoon and continued eating, slightly more stoically than before. His body had tensed up, his jaw clenched and he rhythmically shoved spoonfuls in his mouth. Demelza stared at him oddly across the table. The change in tone was tangible and she wanted nothing more than to retrieve that piece of paper from his pocket and find out what had gotten him so worked up. He seemed disturbed, a muscle going in his jaw as he chewed, his whole body in fight or flight mode and soon, he’d finished his bowl. He got up and looked outside, bracing his weight on his hands as he inspected the dark like he’d find something there. Demelza stopped her own dinner and got up, walking over to him and placing a hand on his back gently.  
“Ross, what is it? What’s upse’ing you so?”  
“Nothing,” he murmured again, turning away from Demelza to walk back to the fire, taking his jacket off and tossing it on a chair. He rolled his sleeves up as if he was about to go down the mine and turned to stare at the fire. She frowned at his lack of contact and was about to resume her digging when there was a knock at the door. She was in the process of dusting herself down to make herself more presentable but in a few strides, Ross was across the room and out if it, pulling the door open quickly.  
A servant from Trenwith stood there expectantly, looking at Ross with a hopeful expression on his face.  
“Cap’n Poldark, Sir. Should I tell mistress you’re on your way? She was asking, Sir.”  
“No.”  
With that, he closed the door before Demelza could see and walked back into the room where she observed him with a concerned expression.  
“What were the servant from Trenwith doin’ here, Ross? What business could George possibly have with us?”  
“None,” he said quietly, picking up a bottle of whisky from the table, “I’ll be in my study.”  
With that, he turned to make his way out of the room before the door swung open, making him stop in his tracks. A patter of feet made him smile and he turned around.  
“Oh, Jeremy! Come now, up to bed wi’ you!” exclaimed Demelza, picking him up as Prudie helped him toddle inside.  
“Oh, he won’t listen!” said Prudie, watching the little boy frown in the arms of his mother. He kicked his little legs and frowned at his mother, who frowned back at him. She was about to reprimand him and tell him he was a big boy and he should be sleeping peacefully at this time of the night, but before she could open her mouth, Ross walked over slowly and lifted his son gently from Demelza’s arms.  
“Why doesn’t the little master sleep with his father tonight? You’ve given your mother far too much trouble, young man,” said Ross jovially, bouncing Jeremy on his hip. At those words, Jeremy broke out in a toothy grin and giggled, exclaiming ‘Papa!’ before burying his face in Ross’ neck. Ross smiled and Demelza noticed for the first time tonight how truly tired he looked. His eyes were red and swollen, his curls unruly and his face lined with worry. The candle light cast odd shadows over him, making him look much older than he was. His eyes lit up as he spoke in hushed tones, carrying Jeremy up to bed slowly.  
The boy rested his head down on his father’s shoulder, yawning and regressing back to his lulled state. Ross buried his face in his boy’s hair as he carried him up the stairs and into their bedroom, walking around with him slowly. The fire crackled in the grate and harmonised with the soft pat of his boots on the wooden floor. He kept his movements slow and rhythmic to send Jeremy off into a steady slumber, feeling him grow heavier against his shoulder. His little legs dangled loosely down by Ross’ stomach and he felt his little hand fist a bunch of his creased white shirt. Demelza had bathed him before bed, he noted, nuzzling his hair to smell the fresh, clean scent of soap.  
How precious a child is to his father, thought Ross, as he held Jeremy even closer to him. Everything about Jeremy made him fall in love with him a little more. His first steps, his first spoonful, his first babble, the way he would toddle clumsily across the room and clap his little hands and exclaim ‘Papa!’ when Ross got back from the mine. Ross smiled as he extricated Jeremy from his shoulder and laid him down carefully in his little bed, tucking him in with a thick blanket to ward away the biting cold. He turned to face his bed and lifted his eyes to the window by the desk, looking out at the blackness once again. He didn’t know where to start.  
He was a terrible man, he knew that. He was loathsome and selfish for what he had done and he could never rectify it, no matter how much he wanted to or how hard he tried. He heard a soft and reassuring clanging of pots downstairs as Demelza disposed of the night’s dinner, finishing up the cleaning before making her way upstairs too. His wife, the love of his life, the mother of his children, the woman who loved him more than he ever believed anyone could.  
He stared out at the darkness again, training his eyes to see deeper into the thick mist, as if Trenwith could be visible from so far away. And there, so close by, was Elizabeth. The love of his life, the mother of his children, the woman who had promised to love him no matter what. Whether she had kept that promise or not was of little value, not right now. Not in these crucial hours. He had no hesitation in thinking that he wished he was there to see the birth of his child, but that thought wasn’t without regret.  
He sighed and pushed his braces off his shoulders, tugging his shirt out of his breeches as he began the arduous process of getting ready to sleep. He walked over to the window and opened it, sticking his head out harshly into the cool night air. The cold surprised him and he lingered for a moment, appreciating the stillness and rawness of the night, undisturbed by human sounds. Not a soul seemed to stir and the thump of blood in his ears was more audible than ever. The night was dark and cold and suddenly, he didn’t feel the pressing need to ride over to Trenwith. Elizabeth was more than capable of handling anything by herself, whether it was a husband, a child or a household. He wished he could be there but he knew she didn’t need him. When a lioness gave birth to cubs in the forest, she needed no aid. That fading image was from a story his mother used to tell him as a child.  
His eyes burned from the grating cold and he pulled his head in, closing the window firmly. Women had an innate force about them. A reserve of willpower and steel that no one but a lover could break. And in Elizabeth, not even that. God knew how many times he and other men had broken her and she had somehow pieced herself back together and never let the world know there had been the merest crack in her beautiful surface, like a delicate China vase that shatters yet keeps its form, presenting still an eye catching spectacle to others despite the severest damage. Sometimes he wished he could have half the strength of both Demelza and Elizabeth. Alas, he was merely a man.  
Demelza wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist, biting her lip as she picked up Ross’ jacket from the chair. She had intended to hang it up ready for use tomorrow but instead, she fished inside the pocket to remove the note that had caused him such anguish earlier in the evening. She felt no remorse or shame for doing it for it was all in the way of helping her husband. Her hands trembled as she opened up the folded square and she didn’t quite know why. She read the line over and over again, as she’d watched Ross do at the dinner table and her heart sunk in a similar fashion. Standing like that for some time, she began to feel slightly numb to her surroundings, barely feeling the paper in her hand. Any moment now, Ross could come down the stairs looking for her, enquiring as to why she hadn’t come to bed yet and she herself knew she should go upstairs and check on Jeremy.  
Robotically, she folded the paper up again and leaned over to tuck it back inside Ross’ jacket. A soft pit pat sound seemed to echo around the bare room as two tears darkened the navy velvet heavily, but she brushed them away before hanging his jacket up. Untying the apron from around her waist, she wiped her face with it and set it aside, sniffing and trying, just trying to calm herself before she went upstairs.  
The numbness was slowly being replaced with a heat, a fire that had started somewhere in the pit of her stomach and threatened to overwhelm her. She felt stupid. She felt silly and foolish and disrespected and insulted. Having sat there and spoken to him, attempted to reassure him, been worried that something had upset him when all along the elephant in the room had been a slap in her face. She gripped the back of the chair she’d been sitting, feeling how warm it had become from the fire Prudie had just doused. The room was pleasantly warm and dark around her and all seemed well with the world. Not in her world. She didn’t know when she’d started sobbing, when tears had stopped dripping and started flowing.  
To think of her husband in another woman’s bed was bad enough, to think of him in the bed of the woman she’d envied for years was even worse, but this, this was something she didn’t even have words for. Of course she didn’t know for sure that what she suspected was true, but if it wasn’t, there would be no reason for anyone to send a note from Trenwith, no reason for Ross to react so harshly to the news that Elizabeth was in labour. What did it matter to him when a Warleggan child was born?  
Unless, of course, it wasn’t a Warleggan child at all. She wanted to rage. She wanted to pick the chair up and throw it across the room, scream so loud that everyone came running, she wanted to cause a scene. But it was late. And it was dark. And Jeremy was asleep upstairs. It was the middle of the night, she thought, as she picked up a shawl and drew it around herself, walking upstairs slowly. It was the middle of the night and she felt so very, very alone.  
“No, no, sleep, my love. I have to go early to the mine today. Sleep, you’ve been up with Jeremy most of the night.”  
Demelza watched through bleary eyes as Ross carefully pulled on his boots and fixed his breeches, tugging a waistcoat and jacket on before fixing himself in the mirror. He looked oddly polished to be going to the mine, where he’d usually cast off his jacket and come home with dust and mud caked on an old, worn shirt. She knew she should try to get up to make him a quick breakfast but she didn’t have the energy. Those trapped emotions from the night before had sapped all movement from her body and she felt lifeless.  
“The mine needs your attention so early,” murmured Demelza, turning over onto her back and burrowing deeper under the covers.  
“I’m afraid.”  
With that, he leaned over to kiss her cheek softly and she closed her eyes, turning away to peek at the light coming in through the window. It hadn’t been long since they’d been a-bed, it seemed to be the crack of dawn. She heard his footsteps fade quickly down the stairs.  
“I’m afraid too,” she whispered to herself and the empty room, closing her eyes as her tears stained the creased white pillowcase.  
The morning air bit at his face sharply as he rode across the field in full gallop. It was still dark around him, the sun beginning to peek through the strangely overcast sky. His face began to freeze as his horse beat the ground with his hooves so loudly that Ross could hear nothing else. He wanted to ride forever, feel the wind cut at his skin as he breathed in deep gulps of fresh sea air. He’d thought nothing about what he’d do or say when he got to Trenwith, how he’d approach Elizabeth, whether George would be there, what excuse he would make for his visit. There had been no word sent from Aunt Agatha after the note he had received the night before, no announcement of a delivery and he would be lying if he said the thought wasn’t plaguing his mind that something had gone wrong.  
He half knew Demelza suspected something. She wasn’t stupid. The calmness with which she had bid him goodbye this morning told him almost everything he needed to know. His heart sank somewhere close to his ankles and he knew that there was a confrontation written in his near future. He just didn’t know where or when Demelza would choose to place it and he wasn’t man enough to start it. He had hurt her, he knew it. He had done something so unacceptable that perhaps their marriage wouldn’t survive it if that door was opened. Perhaps they would continue like this, as if nothing was the matter, yet both secretly knowing the thing that would devastate them if they dared to open their mouths. It would be a painful existence, but it would be one together, not one apart. There was Jeremy, who needed him, who needed both his parents. That was the least a child deserved.  
And there, in his line of sight, was another child. One who is and would remain fatherless for the rest of their life. No matter how much duty or obligation or even love he felt towards this child, he would never be able to openly acknowledge that this was his offspring, that this child was a Poldark and would be treated as such. Instead, the child would take the Warleggan name, the name of his stepfather presumed biological father, and that dreaded name would tarnish the fiery and proud Poldark blood.  
That was a thought best left for the future, and whatever it would throw at them. What worried him right now was the welfare of Elizabeth and his child, the tortured mess he’d left Demelza in, and the identity of the person who had sent him the note from Trenwith. Who there could possibly know what had happened between himself and Elizabeth? There were only three people residing in that house that he knew of, with the late addition of Verity; none of whom would have any inkling of his indiscretion.  
The closer he got to Trenwith, the less the thought of confronting George weighed on his mind. He was sure he’d find some way to explain himself. He dismounted quickly and strode towards the door, crop still in hand. His boots crunched impatiently on the gravel as he tilted his head to the side to see if anyone had heard him knock. A quick look upwards to Elizabeth’s bedroom told him that she was there. Candles still flickered by the window, providing an odd and anachronistic addition to the dark dawn surrounding him. It wasn’t full light yet, even now as Verity opened the door.  
“Ross? Oh, Ross!”  
She threw herself at him and Ross was concerned, squeezing her tight before pulling away from her.  
“Oh, Ross, it’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed, yet the joy in her voice didn’t quite connect with the look on her face. Lines of exhaustion marked her face, her eyes slightly puffy and red from staying awake all night. Her gown was rumpled and her hair out of place as she took Ross’ arm and pulled him inside.  
“Have you come to see Elizabeth? Where is Demelza? Did she not come with you? And so early too! I would have thought the contention between you and George would have prevented you from…” she trailed off unsurely, her early bubbliness vanishing as she reminded herself of the circumstances.  
“Demelza…was tending to Jeremy. He has a slight chill. I shall bring her with me later. I just thought I should come as I was passing to go to the mine. I know things have not gone easy between George and I, but I still feel I have an obligation towards Elizabeth. And you. Forgive the early hour of the call, cousin.”  
His words were disjointed and he hoped the airy tone of his voice didn’t betray the truth. Verity seemed to accept it and he wished he could bound forward and ask about Elizabeth and the child, find out everything he could, but the delusion was untenable.  
“Oh, Ross, it’s always a pleasure to see you, no matter what the hour. Would you like some refreshment?”  
He nodded and watched Verity pour out a glass of port. It was early for such a drink but Ross was much obliged for it, taking the glass from his cousin. He tossed his crop and hat carelessly on a chair as he took a small sip of the port, allowing it to revive him slightly. The mood was quiet and Verity stood comfortably, looking around in a tiresome haze.  
“You look like you could use one too,” joked Ross, gesturing towards the cut crystal tumbler in his hand.  
“Yes, I may join you,” joked Verity tiredly, “the night was difficult for us all. I am grateful that they are safe. Did Aunt inform you?”  
Ross paused and locked eyes with Verity, who searched him with the polite question as if it was no matter. He froze as the cogs ticked in his brain. If Verity had not written the note, then he dared to think that perhaps Elizabeth had sent for him herself. The very thought brought a fire to his whole body, making him clench his jaw and tighten his grip around his glass. Elizabeth may have sent for him and he’d chosen to ignore her note.  
“Yes,” he decided was the safe answer, “and George? I take it he is pleased.”  
Ross looked around as if George might jump out from behind a couch at any moment and accost him. Verity noticed his cautious stare and was unsettled herself. It had been hours and no word from George. She didn’t know how long the ride from Bodmin was and she was sure than Aunt Agatha had sent word of both the labour and the delivery to George’s lodgings.  
“I would only know what George thought if he were here,” replied Verity airily, dusting her dress off, “there’s been no word since we sent from him and he’s not here yet. I’m sure he will be in good time, so if you…”  
She trailed off but they both knew what she meant. The plan was for him to go and see Elizabeth as quickly as possible before George arrived.  
“I just mean that….George may be more accommodating if Demelza were to come alone, later in the day, for example,” said Verity quickly, clearly inferring that Ross shouldn’t accompany his wife.  
He nodded and sighed as he picked up his hat and crop, following Verity out of the room and up the stairs. What was she afraid would happen? A punch up? Well, it had happened in the last so perhaps her concerns weren’t unfounded. He was too busy thinking about what he wished he could say to George until he realised they were already outside the door to Elizabeth’s bedroom.  
“I know she wishes that you would come and visit at a time where she were perhaps….more refreshed,” Verity endeavoured to explain, a slightly hesitant look on her face, “I’m afraid she’s not quite well.”  
Ross stared at Verity nonplussed. It wasn’t like her to be so closed off around him and he was instantly worried that something was wrong. He didn’t know what could possibly be the issue, he was perfectly aware that since her marriage to George, he’d lavished Elizabeth with every gift she could ever think of. She and Geoffrey Charles wanted for nothing and he was certain that George would have sent the best of doctors to stand by for the birth.  
“What do you mean? Was she taken sick? How is the child?”  
Verity raised an eyebrow at his sharp tone and he narrowed his eyes, peeking through the slit in the door as if simply looking at Elizabeth would give him the answer to every question.  
“The child is well, Ross. Elizabeth has a fever, Dr Enys said it would recede with rest.”  
A few polite words later and Verity left Ross to enter the room alone. She wasn’t without trepidation, leaving Ross and Elizabeth in the same room together, but Elizabeth was weak and Ross had come to rekindle their friendship. He merely wished to congratulate Elizabeth on the birth of her child and no more, since he couldn’t do so with George. She thought it was best to leave them to it.  
“Elizabeth, I…”  
Ross paused as he stepped into the bedroom, his voice loud enough to wake the dead, but trailed off when he looked around. The room was dark, curtains half drawn and candles flickering, mimicking the raging fire at the other end of the room. It crackled almost miserably in the large space, which was warm and almost muggy yet still oddly cold. A strange chill passed over him as he surveyed the scene before him. Elizabeth lay on the bed, seemingly asleep, her head tipped to the side. He bit his lip as he stepped towards the bed, careful not to wake her with the rough sounds of his boots on the wooden floor. The closer he got, the more he noticed how withered she’d become in all these months of being away from him. Her face was paler than usual, no bright pink flush lit her cheeks and her body seemed strangely small and vulnerable tucked under the covers.  
Verity had obviously tried to make her look presentable, a neat bow adorned the front of her elaborate lace nightgown, yet the sheets were rumpled and her dark curls tossed across the pillow. She looked beautiful to him, even then. He could tell by the shallow way she breathed that she was weak, her eyelids fluttered prettily as she slept and he watched her pink lips part as she shifted on the bed. He ached to help her, to pour a glass of water and hold it to her lips, to send for a filling bowl of soup from the kitchens and swathe her in blankets. He wanted to fuss and worry but he knew that wasn’t his place. He knew she had been strong, alone and perhaps scared with no one by her side but Verity.  
He almost forgot the reason for his visit until he heard a quiet smacking sound, making him turn apprehensively. There next to the bed, an arm’s length away from Elizabeth’s sleeping form, sat a small cot made of dark burnished wood. Movement was tangible inside and Ross’ mouth suddenly went dry. He set his crop and hat down on the bed, walking over very slowly. It was almost as if he was afraid to look into the cot, afraid what he might see. He’d never felt this apprehensive when seeing Julia or Jeremy for the first time, he didn’t know why he felt so nauseated as he leaned over the cot.  
There was nothing to be afraid of. The baby was smaller than he thought his other two children had been when they were born. It was swaddled in an elegant white lace blanket, similar to the lace of its mother’s nightgown. The child was awake, though. It moved its little legs and arms just a fraction, enough to make a rustle in its little bed. He looked like a boy to Ross but he couldn’t be sure. Wriggling and fidgeting, the child moved enough to free its arms of the blanket and opened its eyes to look up at Ross.  
Ross felt odd, accosted almost by the gaze of this tiny little infant. Large, dark and strangely piercing eyes looked up at him, the gaze penetrating and curious. Perhaps he was the first man the child had seen, Ross thought, matching the stare with one of his own. The child stared back and blinked, curling on itself and shaking its little head as if it were cold. It was terrifying how small newborns were, Ross thought, how tiny and fragile they were and how strong they became. With the movement, the blanket fell from the baby’s head where it had been swaddled, revealing a shock of thick, dark hair. Ross was slightly taken aback at how different the child looked from Elizabeth and Geoffrey Charles. Soft, dark skin, not pale like Elizabeth’s and jet black hair, so dark you couldn’t tell if it was black or brown. The baby made that soft smacking sound Ross had heard before, pursing its little lips and smacking them together, looking around the cot, presumably for its mother. The exertion had exhausted the infant and Ross saw the baby begin to tire, slumping back onto the quilted pillows.  
Ross didn’t even register the soft smile on his face as he shed his coat and waistcoat, untying his neck cloth and tossing it carelessly on the bed as he reached into the cot to carefully lift the little thing out and into his arms. He parted his lips in concentration, making sure to support the baby’s head as he attempted to swaddle him again with his blanket. The infant struggled a little in his arms before settling comfortably against the soft fabric of his billowy shirt, nestling against his chest. Ross felt his cheek, small and warm and soft, pressing against his chest as the baby looked up at him, more comfortable now. The smile plastered across Ross’ face hurt his cheeks as he carried the little bundle around the room slowly, his boots thudding softly on the rug as he looked down.  
The warmth that filled his body had nothing to do with the crackling fire. The child was so small in his arms, so small and feather light, looking up at him as if he was the most fascinating thing in the world. Pure, warm love burned itself onto Ross’ heart, making him feel heavy, as if he was glued to the floor with this child in his arms. He couldn’t move or speak for fear that it would come gushing out with such force that it terrified him. His heart began to throb painfully, making him breath shakily while he glued his eyes to the small face peeking out of the blanket. He feared he would cry, but he didn’t know quite what was causing his eyes to burn so torturously.  
Elizabeth had been waking for some time now, her eyes flitting open deliriously as she adjusted to the haze of the room. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep or where Valentine was, and a feeling of abject panic began to wash over her as she moved her gaze over to the cot next to the bed and saw it empty. She felt heavy and weak, pulled down into the bed with the covers pressing her in as she frantically lifted her heavy lidded eyes to her bed, barely able to move. She felt hot, but the heat had nothing to do with her fever. How dare Verity take Valentine away without asking her first? Irritation bubbled in Elizabeth and gave her motivation to take a deep breath in and out, hearing air rattle oddly in and out of her mouth. She knew she was unwell.  
She focused on attempting to get up, move, perhaps try to raise her voice to call for Verity. As she did, she looked across the bed in a haze of confusion. A brown overcoat was tossed across it carelessly along with an imperious looking crop and a pair of worn leather gloves. But it was the last thing she saw that shook her out of her delirium. A black three cornered hat sat quietly next to the crop and she knew what those items meant, who they belonged to, but she didn’t want to believe it. Perhaps she was slipping deeper into her fever, so deep that she had begun to hallucinate. There was no point in dwelling on this, she thought, trying to force her subconscious as far back as it could go in her head. As she refocused her energy on settling herself so she could attempt to leave the bed, she lifted her eyes.  
“R….R-Ross?”  
Ross paused at the unmistakeable sound of Elizabeth’s voice and looked up, staring ahead at the fire at the far end of the room. He didn’t dare turn around to face her and cursed himself for not leaving before she woke up.  
“Ross, is that you?”  
Her voice was no more than a whisper, weakened half by her illness and half by the utter shock of seeing him in her bedroom. There was no mistaking his tall, lean stature, his muddied knee high boots, his shirt so haphazardly tucked into his breeches and those wild, untameable curls. They were the same curls her son had, after all. She knew it was Ross even though she hadn’t seen his face and she felt her entire body melt comfortably into the same bed that had been a prison for her as he turned around.  
He moved his gaze slowly up from the small bundle in his arms to find Elizabeth barely able to sit up in bed, staring at him with an unreadable expression on her face. Was it relief or fear or anxiety, he didn’t know. Her eyes flitted from Ross to Valentine and all she wanted was to hold her son but she was too weak to convey her wish. Ross seemed to read her mind and walked over slowly, carrying the baby carefully to Elizabeth and handing him over gently. She took him greedily, suddenly finding energy enough to hold him. It seemed Ross had sent him to sleep, his little eyelids closed peacefully as he snuggled up to his mother.  
“Perfect,” murmured Ross.  
She felt the bed dip just behind her and to the side, reminding her of his presence. She looked down at her son and carefully and gently pushed his dark hair away from his forehead as he slept. She chided herself again for ever thinking that she wished he’d never existed when she’d been pregnant with him.  
“So perfect,” murmured Ross again, softer this time. The two words resonated close to her ear as Ross leaned forward to view him. Even though he was asleep, passive and doing nothing, Ross couldn’t get enough of him. He wished he could sit there forever and just stare at him.  
“It’s a boy,” whispered Elizabeth quietly, holding him closer to her chest, “his name is Valentine.”  
Ross paused and swallowed again, his throat becoming dry once more. His son. This was his son and he was strong and healthy and beautiful and perfect. Ross moved slowly so as not to startle the boy, carefully wrapping his arms around Elizabeth, moving them down over her own arms to cradle Valentine with her. Little strands of her hair tickled his face as he kept from resting his chin on her shoulder, feeling the warm weight of the baby in his arms. Elizabeth closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of Ross’ arms around her so warmly, so snugly. She fought to breathe as she told herself to remember this, to carve this into her mind as a memory to replay when she was once more alone.  
They stayed like that for some time but neither of them new exactly how long. Ross leaned comfortably against Elizabeth and she too, exhausted from the exertion, rested her head softly against his as he propped his chin almost comically on her shoulder after all. She could feel his fingers slowly rubbing and running over the bare skin of her arm and hand in lazy, absent motions, gentle and soft so as not to wake the baby. This moment was eternal for her, like something out of a fantasy she’d never dared to dream. She never thought that she would ever be able to sit like this with Ross, with their son, almost like….she dreaded to even think of the word…almost like a family. The family they could have had if things had gone right.  
“I’m sorry,” began Ross quietly, his voice piercing the hazy air. It sounded odd after the stillness. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I’m sorry you were alone when—“  
“Please, Ross.”  
Her voice was timid but pleading and Ross knew. He stopped talking and nestled into her once more, nuzzling her hair softly with his nose. She didn’t want to hear it, she didn’t want to think of any of that. Just for this moment, this tiny little moment that seemed removed from the real world, that seemed captured in her palm for a split second, she didn’t want to think about any of that. Every waking second of her life was spent thinking about what could have been, but not now. She didn’t want to think of that now. She knew she was terrible and awful and immoral and perhaps deserved all the mental torment she suffered, perhaps she deserved all the punishment in the world but just for these few moments, she allowed herself a reprieve.  
Ross breathed in the soft but heavy fragrance hungrily, inhaling shakily as he closed his eyes to revel in the softness of her curls brushing against his face. All of a sudden, he was back there on the cliff, feeling her long, dark locks whip harshly against his face as she turned in his arms and laughed, the wind lashing at them both, causing her hair to lift up wildly and freely. He closed his eyes as he watched her look back at him teasingly, picking up her skirts and running across the grass that seemed greener than any he’d ever seen.  
His arms tightened around her unconsciously, keeping her in a comfortable grip as his mind drifted from the cliff to the orchard, the last time he remembered holding her like this. The scent of unripe apples surrounding them, Ross holding her as she sat on the grass and ate them from a basket. His munching had been loud and noisy as he devoured his share of the few ripe apples they had found, whereas she had been careful to wipe her mouth after every small bite. She had taken to using her hand to wipe the juices from her lips when she’d failed to find her napkin, an issue that had caused her great distress. He’d laughed, turning her around to kiss her, take some of the juice onto his lips before untying his neck cloth and handing it to her.  
He could still taste the juice, sweet and tart on his lips, and that was when he was reminded of the gift he’d brought her. He opened his eyes slowly, reluctantly, and moved to pull away to reach for his coat.  
The shaky gasp that filled the room echoed around it frantically as Elizabeth jerked with the separation of Ross from her. She grasped his arm impulsively as if it would make him stay. It hadn’t been long enough yet, not nearly long enough. Then again, she feared even forever wouldn’t be long enough for her.  
“Hush,” he murmured, turning to her to lock his eyes with hers, “I shan’t leave you, Elizabeth. Not yet.”  
His voice was low and reassuring and she nodded back blankly, surprised at herself and her rash action. She fixed Valentine in her arms, tucking the blanket safely around his little chin as Ross reached for his coat and into the pocket.  
“I didn’t have much to bring you and hardly any time,” he explained softly, “but I found you a gift.”  
From his pocket, he extracted a small apple, the size of her palm. It was shiny red and ripe and her eyes lit up as she saw it. After all these years, he still remembered. She wished she could reach out and take it, bite into it and savour the taste, it was the first thing she’d felt like eating in months. She was too weak to reach for it but Ross smiled at her reaction, rubbing it on his breeches.  
“I shall call for a knife and cut it for you. You have your hands full.”  
She smiled at him then, for the first time. Her face broke out into a large, joyful smile as she watched him pick up a small knife from the side of her bed where it had been sitting amongst an untouched fruit basket. He began to carve the apple up into small pieces, dropping them onto a shining silver plate before picking up one and turning to her, holding it to her lips. As she leaned forward to take a small bite, his eyes wandered to her lips, full and pink against the bright red of the apple. He watched her eat it, her tongue flicking out to tease the drop of juice that had dripped onto her bottom lip. She smiled at him and he smiled back, setting the bitten apple on the plate again as he leaned forward, looking down at his boy once more.  
“He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen,” mused Ross and Elizabeth felt like laughing at the way he looked at Valentine. He seemed so possessed by him, a look she’d seen so many times before. He leaned down to press a soft kiss to his son’s forehead, taking his time to brush his lips over skin so soft it felt like silk. She moved a hand slowly away from under Valentine, using her strength to gently ghost her hand over Ross’ hair. Even though his eyes were closed, he could feel the soft presence of her touch and smiled, pulling back from the warmth of his son to take the warmth of Elizabeth’s hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss it tenderly.  
Her skin was hot, he noted, frowning as he looked down at her hand, then up at her face. There was a light sheen of sweat across her pale skin and her eyes were red and tired. She smiled at him as he looked at her, drinking in his gaze, his attention, oblivious to his concern as he raised his own hand to her face. She had been so very strong, for him, for their baby but it seemed the ordeal had taken its toll on her. He felt a smouldering sense of...perhaps he could call it pride, even. He was proud of her. She shouldn't have had to go through that alone, but she had and was fighting nonetheless. She'd spoken nothing to him of her pain, no complaint had passed her lips. As was usual for her.  
“You’re burning up,” he whispered, moving his hand away to look around for a wet cloth. He settled on his neck cloth, lying next to his hat and picked it up, mopping her brow with it haphazardly.  
“I’ll call for Verity, you should send for Dwight. This fever, if it’s not broken yet it could be serious.”  
His tone was one of anxiety and he was brusque. She nodded along, inhaling deeply and slowly as she gathered her senses. She must get well, she thought. She had two children that needed her and more reason than ever to regain her health. Ross’ concern didn’t dissipate, however, and he opened his mouth to explain that he would send for medicine from town if it would help, yet his speech was interrupted by a call for Elizabeth outside.  
“Elizabeth! George has arrived!”  
Panic swept her again and she held Valentine tight to herself reflexively. Her mind began to swim and Ross growled in frustration.  
“I must leave, Elizabeth,” he said decidedly, standing up to pull on his coat roughly, shoving his neck cloth in his pocket as he grabbed his crop and hat from the bed, jamming it onto his head before turning to her. He saw her look, searching his face, watching his actions with her mouth moving but no sound coming.  
“I shall see you soon, I promise,” he assured her, leaning down to press his forehead against hers, “I shall see you, and my son, I promise.”  
He lingered a moment longer, breathing in the warm scent of Elizabeth and Valentine, letting his eyes wash over his son for the last time in what he knew would be an age. With that, his jaw tensed and he stood up, striding out, resisting the urge to look back. He inhaled and exhaled sharply, steadying himself as he closed the door behind him and hammered his way down the stairs, aiming to catch his horse before George saw him. It seemed he’d succeeded as he heard George speaking with Verity in the receiving room where he’d been not long ago.  
He felt like a child playing hide and seek as he shared a look with Verity behind George’s back, letting her know he was leaving. He chided himself for his immaturity as he strode out and over to his horse, making to swing up before he heard a crunch of gravel behind him.  
“Uncle Ross! Uncle Ross, it’s been so long!”  
He paused and turned as he saw Geoffrey Charles running towards him. In his heart, he knew it was him but these few months had changed him. He’d grown so much it made Ross smile as he clapped a hand on his shoulder.  
“It certainly has. And how is my boy? Have you been taking care of your mother?”  
“Yes, Uncle Ross. Are you well?”  
His reply was quiet and polite, much like his mother and Ross smiled, ruffling his hair affectionately before pulling on his leather gloves.  
“I’m very well, young man. How have you been with your tutors? Next time I come, I shall bring a gift for you, I give you my word.”  
Geoffrey Charles smiled at this, adjusting his jacket as he stared up at his Uncle, watching him fix his own outfit before he left.  
“Were you here to see my brother?”  
“I was indeed. I know Mama is unwell and I know it troubles you, so you must see to it that you look after her. Have you seen him yet?”  
Ross’ tone was jovial and he smiled as he looked down at the boy. Geoffrey Charles paused and looked up at his favourite uncle.  
“Yes, I have. He’s small and he has hair just like you.”  
Ross froze and for a moment, nothing was heard but the air around them and his horse pounding the ground impatiently. Geoffrey Charles wondered whether he’d said something to upset his uncle.  
“Yes, he does.”  
With that, Ross forced a smile and swung up onto his horse, taking note of the dreary, weak sunshine that was peeking through the overcast clouds. It was morning now. He smiled down at Geoffrey Charles and held out a hand, which Geoffrey met with his own, clasping it tight. Ross squeezed his hand and let go, trotting off towards the gates.


End file.
